Let it Bleed
by Shotgun9
Summary: Speculative/apocalypse/het fic based on promo clips and photos for 5.04 SPOILERS , Dean/5.04 Female Character; "If only God could see them now..."


**Title**: Let it Bleed

**Rating**: R (sex, language, drug use)

**Pairing**: Dean/5.04 Female Character

**Notes**: Het, speculative/apocalypse fic, **spoilers through 5.03, including promo clips and pictures for 5.04**, for I am a spoiler whore. See author's note. Based on a promo picture (I can't get the site to let me post a link, so here's the dirty version for you to enter in your url bar: tinyurl [dot] com [slash] ydytfu7)

**Disclaimer**: Not mine. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox. Un-beta'd.

**Summary**: _If only God could see them now._

* * *

Dean likes the munitions closet. He's safe there.

She likes the closet too, but he thinks it has less to do with the cases of frag grenades surrounding them and more with the fact that Tim and Jake can't hear her head bang back into the peeling sheet rock when she shudders into orgasm, Dean's hand clenched in her dark brown hair. He squints in the dim candlelight, all shoulders and sweat and satisfied grunts as he slides her down from the wall and sets her ass on the cold concrete.

"God," she breathes.

Ironic, he thinks. If only God could see them now. He fumbles in the dark for his pants, wincing as he twists the wrong way. The blaze of red, puckered flesh that runs down his left side strains at the thick black thread keeping his entrails from spilling out onto the dirty floor. It's a gruesome reminder of his own mortality, and he's had his fair share over the four years since the war began.

Her chapped hands cup the back of his neck, tracing the pink-white fibers of scar tissue that spill over his pale skin. "You're getting slow in your old age," she murmurs. Her lips brush the starburst sigil inked in the small of his back. He shivers and steps into his jeans.

"They're getting faster," he says, and the words scrape the back of his throat. She retrieves her shirt from behind a stash of automatic rifles. He watches as she ties her hair back, trying to remember how long it's been since they've had a shower. Not since they lost running water and electricity -- two weeks ago? Maybe more. Not that time really matters at this point. Bursts of chaos signal an end to the long nights of restless anticipation. The sun peeks over the decaying skyline and for a few brief hours, it's all there, stripped naked for the world to see: the dreck of decaying bodies in the streets, the smoke and ash that still drift through bombed-out buildings, and the _others_. Their unholy cries flicker like dying embers in the gray dusk until the world is again plunged into darkness. Enough to drive a man mad.

The worn buckles of his pistol holster click into place around his leg. He reaches for the door. She stops him, spins him around, catches his lips in hers. Weeks of stubble chafe her skin when their faces press together. She's salty sweet and he wants to stay, to kiss her long and deep and fuck her against the wall again, but it's nearly daybreak. The door clicks open and she makes a disappointed grunt before sliding her pistol from her belt and slipping through the exit.

The basement is empty. The air is heavy and damp. Upstairs, the sharp aroma of reefer blindsides Dean and he knows Castiel must be nearby. Sure enough, he's sitting in the window, automatic rifle propped in his lap as he stares out the window, eyes glassy and empty. Through hooded eyelids, he looks over at the sound of the approaching footsteps.

"You were gone."

"Yeah."

Castiel nods and turns his attention back to the pitch dark streets of the demolished town.

Dean steals a glance over his shoulder. She's disappeared, as usual. The house is quiet. Wynn is curled up in the north corner with his hand on his shotgun. He hasn't eaten in three days -- he's not far from the breaking point. Beck's passed out on top of a pile of moldy blankets. A small puddle of drool is pooled on his t-shirt. At least he's not snoring.

Castiel rolls another joint, pausing to offer it to Dean before he lights up. He breathes in, holding the thick smoke deep in his lungs before allowing it to seep out his nose. "I found a book," he says, patting his jacket. "By a German named Friedrich. He confirmed my suspicions."

"It's a metaphor." Dean runs a hand through his greasy hair.

Castiel doesn't seem to hear him. "He didn't abandon us. We killed Him. And we have nothing because of it." He takes another hit. "Maybe we were confused. Maybe we're on the wrong side. Maybe _this_ is Paradise."

"Do I need to put Beck on sentry duty?"

Castiel shakes his head and refocuses his attention outside, lax fingers barely holding onto the joint while the other hand absently rubs the barrel of the rifle.

Dean leaves. Doesn't want to analyze it, doesn't want to tear it apart. Just wants to go take a piss in the outhouse. The iron door's heavy bolts click one by one and he eases it open, gun at the ready. The barren yard is silent. The barbed wire on top of the chain link perimeter glitters in response to the inquiries of Dean's flashlight. Nothing out of the ordinary. At least as far as Apocalypses go. He takes a couple of steps towards the small shed and then stops at the rusty red stain on the dirt in front of him. A horde came for Davis a couple days ago as he was on his way to the can. Dean thinks better of it and relieves himself a few feet away from the main door. The whole town smells like piss anyway.

He zips himself up and lingers a moment, eyes on the blown-out skeleton of the Impala, resting just at the edge of the property. It had been a Molotov cocktail straight through the window. If it hadn't been for Beck, he would have gone up in flames with it. That was the first time Sam tried to kill him. No. Not Sam. He had to stop thinking about him like that. Not Sam. Sam was long gone. Sam was gone the moment his head slopped against Dean's shoulder in Cold Oak, when his eyes rolled back into his head and Dean shouted his name and there was nothing except hot blood spilling between his fingertips and the guilt that burned in the pit of his stomach and made his eyes sting. And Sam was _gone_.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and wanders back into the house.

* * *

The next night they're back in the munitions closet. He's got the butt of a rifle pressed into his back and his shoulders are _aching_ as she pushes his wrists above his head, her other hand working his dick like an empty magazine in the middle of an ambush. Her lips brush his bristly neck, then her teeth. His head bangs against the wall and his hips jerk forward, a small groan sounding in the back of his throat. She notices the trickle of blood oozing out of the gash in his side and stops. Her fingertips press against the open wound and she arches an eyebrow at him in the flickering light.

"You popped a stitch."

He hooks an ankle behind her knee and yanks her into his chest, breathing deep the smell of musk and sweat. He meets her eyes and, for a moment, all the weight he carries -- hell, it's the _end of the world_ -- falls away and he just doesn't give a damn.

"Let it bleed," he growls, and the candle dies.

-fin-

* * *

A/N: You know those writing exercises where you look at a picture and write whatever comes to mind for it? That's pretty much what happened here. I fully expect to get Kripked in four days, but it was fun to write.


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